Hello! Note that this story is not about Eragon Shadeslayer, but the First Eragon. I do not own Eragon, so this story kind of isn't mine, but whatever. Enjoy, and please review. This is chapter one :P

Eragon gazed forlornly out over the battlefield.

"This war had better end soon or else there will be nothing left of us or of the dragons," he thought sadly, scavenging a sword from an old friend he had known. He was now dead, killed by the war that dumb boy had started. "If Logan hadn't hunted down that one dragon, none of this would've happened." Eragon was unconsciously kicking dragon parts all over in his fury. He desperately wished Logan hadn't been such a… well, such a jerk.

The war between the elves and the dragons had lasted for far too long, of that Eragon was sure. The elves and dragons alike would be facing extinction if nothing changed in the next year; if the war didn't come to an end. Just two years ago they had both been thriving, in the prime of their time. Now all the numbers were dwindling to ominously low numbers.

Something needed to change.

At the beginning of the war the elves had seemed to be winning; now no one could be sure. Eragon slowed his thoughts and began to intake as much air as possible for a few seconds. He calmed down, and then resumed his scavenging. It made him sick to do this, but someone had to do it, and it might as well be him as anyone else.

Eragon didn't really fight, he just was an advisor concerning battle tactics and was a scout. He often did lots of clean up work. He was a minor magician, but that was a secret he kept to himself for a few reasons.

First of all, magicians were the first to go and die in battle. Secondly, they had the most tiring job of healing wounded warriors. Thirdly, it just wasn't worth wasting himself.

Looking around at all the wreckage though, Eragon wasn't so confident in his decision about volunteering as a magician. It didn't matter that much, if not only because he had sworn he wouldn't fulfill such a role in this particular war. He just wanted to survive, it didn't matter how.

He gazed down and found himself gathering another sword of another close friend. Sorrow welled up inside him, as he recognized her for who she was, not a close friend, but a best friend, one he might have mated if the circumstances had been kinder. Swearing angrily at all the causes of this war, he set to digging a hole in the ground as a grave.

The tears came openly now, tears of anger, tears of hate, tears of pain and suffering. Eragon made no move to wipe them; he just kept at his work. When the grave was done, he gently laid his friend in the dirt. He placed her sword in her hands, and folded those over her chest. Finishing his work, he stalked back to camp.

That night he was in laying his tent, thinking. Thinking about the times before this cursed war. Thinking about the times ahead. What ifs poured down on him from all sides, and he felt as though he might drown.

Realizing he wasn'tgoing to get any rest this way, he decided to go on a walk. It was night, sure, and the dragons might have sent some sort of ambush to kill as many as possible, sure, but that didn't really matter anymore. This war was going to have to be won by brains, not brawn.

Sighing, Eragon dressed into warmer clothes, and then ambled out of his wool tent. He dejectedly walked towards the now sluggish river, wishing for the birds to sing again, but all was silent. He wandered down towards what had, just this morning, been forest. With growing frustration he looked at the fallen trees. Stupid Logan! Stupid, stupid, stupid! He was dead now, but the war still raged on.

If only that idiot had stayed his bow.

If only the elves had understood that Logan deserved his death.

If only the elves hadn't been so hasty to strike back.

If only…

"I am Eragon. Eragon. Eragon. My name is Eragon. That is who I am. The only Eragon. The first and last of my time." Eragon took a shuddering breath, still screaming at himself inside his head. No matter what, he was always Eragon. That was one thing he could always believe, no matter what happened. He always repeated his name to himself when he was in a state of confusion, and it would calm him as it calmed him now. His thoughts began to slowly roam elsewhere, and soon he found himself in a foreign world where there was no war.

Peace reigned in this world, eternal peace, peace and tranquility forever and ever. Oh how he longed to be there!

But he couldn't go there.

He was here.

Not there.

'There' didn't even exist for all he knew.

And he knew quite a bit.

And quite a bit told him this war had to end for the good of all.

But how?

A disturbance behind Eragon told him he was not alone in the night.

Whirling around, he surveyed his surroundings tensely. He saw no one, but instinct said otherwise, so he stayed alert and silent.

Minutes passed relentlessly but still the sense of another soul would not leave. Finally Eragon spoke out quietly:

"Who are you and what do you want with me?"

The grass bent ever so slightly, and a female musical voice said quietly,

"I have followed you on silver wings. You are distressed and know a way to save us all." The voice paused, and then went on, even more quietly, saying, "All you have loved has been torn from you, and yet you fight on. That is honorable, and you are worthy of a better life."

"Such a life no longer exists, however. And I'm sorry, but I do not know the way to save the elves, though with all my heart I truly wish I could."

"You know." The voice was dead serious, and dead quiet. "Believe me, you know…" The voice quavered for an instant, then faded away, whispering, "You know, you just have to find that out."

Eragon lashed out to his right, and almost caught the sleeve of the escaping elf, but she was too quick for him. She bounded off into the night, hair streaming behind her.

Sitting down, Eragon pondered her words, and finally discarded them for another time. He gratefully discovered he was tired, and so quickly moved to his tent, plopped down on his bed and fell into a deep sleep.